


The Only Fight

by I_prefer_the_term_antihero



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: 3rd person, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Tragedy, Backstory, Childhood, Family, Family Angst, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Pre-Canon, Present Tense, Tragedy, Young Ben Solo, force awakens, last jedi - Freeform, solo family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:34:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21747610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_prefer_the_term_antihero/pseuds/I_prefer_the_term_antihero
Summary: Waking or sleeping, Ben Solo has been fighting the darkness within him ever since he was a child
Relationships: Ben Solo | Kylo Ren & Han Solo, Ben Solo | Kylo Ren & Leia Organa, Leia Organa/Han Solo
Kudos: 14





	1. The Nightmare of a Lost Boy

**Author's Note:**

> This is an idea I started a very long time ago when I first watched Force Awakens, which I would casually work on after watching/rewatching the other movies thereafter. I’ve always been rather saddened by the lack of young Ben Solo/Kylo Ren content in the movies, especially because I think that would have helped more people understand and enjoy his character, so I put some of those feelings into writing this fic. 
> 
> I’m honestly rather disappointed in myself for not posting this in earlier years, and I had hoped to write many more young Kylo Ren fics before the last movie came out…but I knew I had to at least post this one before Rise of Skywalker! 
> 
> Hopefully watching the third movie won’t dampen my desire for writing about Kylo Ren…so please feel free to let me know what sorts of Kylo Ren--especially young Ben Solo-- fics you’d like to see from me (once I get some time to write). Please feel free to send me prompts/asks/messages on my writing blog on tumblr [ @antihero-writings](https://antihero-writings.tumblr.com), but you can let me know anywhere; in the comments here, or on [ any of my writing platforms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_prefer_the_term_antihero/profile)!)
> 
> Also, please feel free to just message me to chat about Kylo Ren, even if it has nothing to do with the fic!! (Main blog: [@i-prefer-the-term-antihero](https://i-prefer-the-term-antihero.tumblr.com)) I'm looking for more friends in the Reylo fandom!!

All Ben knows is that he has to _run._

The little boy’s breathing is short, his heart racing, his hair falling about his face. The snow crunches and crumbles beneath his feet, the cold biting into his skin. The darkness threatens to take him into its consuming grasp, hold him tight and never let go. 

Maybe he should let it.

He does not know how long he has been running, where he is now, or where he will end up. Nor does he know what he is running _from_. All there is is the act of running, and the fear that set it in motion. 

Fear. Fear heightening his senses, making every stagnant shadow into patient monsters; waiting for him to come too close, so they can pick him up, swallow him whole. 

He doesn’t wait in return, doesn’t wait to see if they’re real; he assumes they are. 

But nothing reaches out with bloody claws, nothing taunts him, or roars in his ears. The only sound in this snowy forest is his own frantic gasps for air—(but he doesn’t feel like he’s breathing)—and that is monstrous enough. 

Ben falls to the ground. He tries to crawl, to get back up, but his legs refuse to answer his commands. 

The darkness, at last, now that Ben is on the ground, now that he cannot escape, takes on form, and steps before him.

Ben is just a child; he will never win against the hosts of darkness. _Never win._

Or at least, his mind repeats it, like some sick prayer; _You’re nothing._

The creature—no, the person—‘s face is obscured, whether by a cloak, a mask, or his own blurred perception, is itself another unclarity.

Everything _is_ a little off, a little unclear, like he’s looking through the dusty viewfinder of his uncle’s macrobinoculars. Like he’s making it up as he goes along. 

In the dim light Ben can’t tell whether the cloak is brown or black. 

There is a whole spectrum between those two colors. 

A sound penetrates the shadows, and with it, a light. 

The lightsaber gleams in the dark. It is not, however the warm grace of lamplight come to save him from the surrounding black. Rather it gathers its energy from the dark around it, amplifies the shadows, and the terror they provide. It hums, a crackling, red-soaked lullaby. Like an escaped convict of the old world, singing to himself in an empty cave the words to an even emptier old imperial march, telling himself he will be king again. 

Red. Black. White. One day, the only colors in which he’ll see.

Ben doesn’t even have the strength, or time, to ask; _Who are you? What are you? What do you want with me?_

It doesn’t matter anyways. He knows, he knows exactly why this person has come: they have been hunting him down for a long time, and that lightsaber is about to break his too-fragile heart—the heart he hasn’t had time to harden and protect yet. 

The only thing he dares to do is shut his eyes, and catch a breath, hold it in his lungs, try to grasp tight enough it won’t be stolen away. 

“Ben,” the shadow taunts with a deep, crackling, familiar, unfamiliar voice, and the figure is so tall …or maybe Ben is just too young…“Oh poor little Ben,” it speaks with mock-pity, “Who will save you now?” 

The little boy tries to swallow, tries to think of something to say, his tongue and mind searching for one strand of hope to grab with his words.

He has no weapon. His words are his only sword. So he must choose the strongest ones. 

So…what are the strongest words? Defiance? Emotion? Insults? Truths? Lies? Will he fight the shadows with light or darkness?

There is power in silence too, but his tongue will not sit still. So, with a nervous sort of pride he says, 

“My father will come. H-He’ll come to save me.”

The figure laughs. 

Then, to Ben’s surprise, they power down the saber and crouch down. But he soon finds the reason is because worse than their taunts, worse than the violent promise of the lightsaber, is the feeling of their gloved finger on his chin. Their face is indistinguishable even now, close. And they say, with only a glint of empathy, hidden under six feet of of malice, 

“Poor little Ben…all alone in the world.”

He swallows. 

Is he? All alone? What if Father isn’t coming? What if Mother isn’t coming? What if Uncle Luke isn’t coming? What if he, and this thing, and these snowy woods are all that is real?

They take their hand away, the mocking tenderness left behind for slander;

“You think Han Solo will come to your rescue? You think that arrogant wretch will be your savior?” he laughed, “I am sorry to say.”—and Ben has been around enough adults to know they aren't sorry at all—“He will leave you on your own…everyone will. Han Solo can’t save you.”

The boy’s hands clench into shaky fists. “N-No! NO!” Ben cries out, so lonely, so afraid, so lost.

The figure head tilts ever so slightly. “You’re so sure… why?”

“Because…Because he’s my father—”

“And that’s what father’s do?” they scoff. “Just because he is your father doesn’t mean he’ll always be there. There are some darknesses we must face alone. Best to realize this earlier on…it’ll save you the pain of betrayal later.”

Ben’s expression is set. His small frame can barely contain all the anger running through him. 

They tilt Ben’s chin higher, appraising him as some fine item for auction. He swallows. “You cling so tightly to the light. Wouldn’t it be easier just to give in?”

“U-Uncle Luke says—”

“Skywalker. I should have known…Did he ever tell you of your grandfather?”

Ben chooses silence this time. 

“What if even your uncle Luke isn’t the perfect hero everyone claims he is? If even he were to turn against you one day…what would you do?”

“No…NO! Uncle Luke would never do that!”

“Quiet!” The figure barks, looking around wildly, exchanging the gentle touch close to Ben’s face for the lightsaber again—at which Ben cries out in fear, and attempts to scramble away but he can't move.

A voice comes from the trees nearby. “You’re the one who shouldn’t be so chatty.”

The footsteps of the new figure fall between the shivering boy on the ground, and the shadow which hovers above him. 

“He’s just a boy," the newcomer says, empathy for that boy, and anger for the man—(if he can be called that)—dripping from the words, "What do you want with him?” 

“What use would _you_ have for him? He is just a boy.” 

“Use? He’s not a tool, or a toy! He is a _person_!”

The attacker whirls his lightsaber tauntingly, “He has his grandfather’s blood in him. Someday he could become something great. But not like this; Not sniveling on the ground.”

“He could be something great. He _will_ be. But not led by you. Go. Leave him alone.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

Lightsabers draw, splash paint across the night, colors flash, sending shocks through him; cracks of sound through the air and ground. 

Ben looks away. 

Thunder and light in the middle of the night, the villain may have fallen, but the child is caught in the middle—between the fire, and the shadows it casts on the wall—

And they die. 

And in the moment he dies Ben realizes just how alive he is.

Light from the stars—which they promise he will travel to, someday—pools on the floor of his bedroom, dripping from the window, crawling through the dark to the child. 

There is nothing more in the room but cloth and metal; pillows and toys, empty and unliving. The world is silent. But the noise of the dream still fills his head. Tells him—though he knows not what— _something_ is in the room with him. Telling him, no matter if there is a rational reason, he must feel uneasy, even now that he is safe.

And there is nothing more unsettling than a silent room to a noisy mind. 

So, with hyperventilating heart, Ben sits up in the quiet. 

He does not, however, rest within the emptiness. 

He tries not to shiver. 

He fails. 

He tries to close his eyes, to shut it all out. 

He fails. 

_There’s nothing here. I’m alone. I’m alone._ Comes the first chorus. 

_I’m so very alone. I’m all alone, just like that thing said, and no one will save me—!_ Is the refrain. 

He tries to tell himself the darkness is not reaching out at him.

He fails. 

As he moves to flee from his nightmares. 

Something moves on the shelf. 

And he runs. 

“Mommy! Daddy!” he cries, attempting to knock down the door to their bedroom with feeble hands, but ends up sliding down it, falling to the floor in a heap of tears.

It’s only a moment before light extends its hands in friendly greeting from the threshold. Footsteps, and the door opens to reveal the worried and sleepy face of his mother, brown hair falling about her waist. 

“Ben?” she runs a hand over her tired expression, “What’s wrong?”

“I-I was—there was—Momma he was gonna kill me—!“ Ben heaves. 

“Oh...You had a nightmare, didn’t you?” Leia kneels down before her son. 

Han’s face appears in the doorway beside her. 

His mother rubs her hand soothingly along her son’s back, crooning, “It’s alright.” She lifts him up in her arms, then runs her hands through his hair as he cries, “Shh…it’s alright. You’re going to be okay.”

“Yeah, it’s okay, Ben,” Han tries to comfort. She sits on the bed, placing him on her lap. He leans his head onto her chest, continuing to cry, as Han joins them. “It was just a bad dream.”

It takes a moment before Ben is able to whimper through the sobs, looking at his dad through the wind and fire: 

“H-He told me y-you wouldn’t be there…he said you couldn’t save me…” 

“What?” Han sits down next to him, “Who told you that?” he laughs a little, “Who does he think he is, ‘can’t save you’?” he scoffs, “You think this asshole”—Leia gave him a reproving look—“er, jerk, would be able to take on the fastest pilot in the galaxy? I bet he’d take one look at me and piss his pants. You really think your cunning, genius, incredibly handsome dad can’t save you?”

Leia rolls her eyes. Ben almost smiles. 

Han smiles back. “That’s not true, son. That’s just not true. I’ll be there; I’ll always be right here.” He cups his son’s cheek. 

“Y-You promise?” Ben asks, sniffling, tear-stained eyes bright and yearning. 

“Yeah. Sure. Of course. Of course I promise.” 

Ben tries to smile but sorrow is so strong in him—as though it’s trying to penetrate his soul and claim it for its own forever after. 

Ben’s mind races, unfinished images falling like rain inside his head. They pool on the dual pathways that lead to Woods of Fear, and the Town called Love, and trickle down into the deepest parts of his soul. 

“You’re gonna be okay, sweetheart, you’re gonna be just fine.” Leia smiles, trying to find the antidote the poison of the dream, “When I was little, I used to have all sorts of dreams.”

“You did?” 

“Yeah. I used to have these dreams about my mother and father all the time. Some of them were nice, but… there were others that scared me.”

“I didn’t know that.” Han spoke. 

“I'm grateful we're here to comfort you." She twists a strand of his hair in around her finger.

“But you’ll always be there for me, right? You’ll protect me?”

“Of course,” she kissed his head. 

But some nightmares never go away. Not really. Not completely. Not when they’re real.

They say the war’s over, but, in him, it feels like it’s just beginning.

And it is. 

Legacy. It always sounds so hopeful to those leaving it. The promise of a better world. But to a child who _is_ this legacy…it becomes quite the toll on the bridge of life. And Ben had this burden worst of all; An uncle who persisted in the light, whose legacy was stars and starships, and saving the galaxy, who made heroism look so easy. A mother whose legacy was kingdoms, republics, who was a princess, though not one in some tower waiting to be rescued. And a father whose legacy was never giving up, always smuggling something, who never checked twice, and always shot first. And a grandfather whose legacy was empires, and black-strewn halls and masks, and bloodstained names, _strong with the force_ , which attuned his heart to darkest parts of it. The blood of all of them spilled beneath his skin, running a race in his veins, pulling him in different directions. And the name of an old hermit whose legacy was the knights and the chivalry of an old forgotten world. He knows not which voice is the tempter and which is the angel calling him home. 

All these conflicting legacies, so much pressure to stay in the light, and one single string of dark, there like a rope rescuing him from a cave he’s fallen into, and the expectation that he’ll live up to them all somehow…What can be left in him but war? 

Peace is not as simple as it seems. Peace is often harder, because while peace is easy to shatter into war, it’s nearly impossible to pick up the pieces of war and put them back together as peace again. There are always little wars in the cracks. It’s unfortunate that he was born on one of those cracks. 

If only he hadn’t grown up. Every child stops idealizing their parents at some point. If only it weren’t those words from the dream that echoed in his head, if only they hadn’t started to sound more and more true, until they were the only thing he believed in. 

If only he had realized he didn’t have to choose just one. Just one side, just one legacy. If only he realized that he didn’t have to choose between being the hero, the prince, the rascal, the master, and the lord. That he could be them all at once. 

And if only the light hadn’t given in to that single moment of fear, proving everything said in his dreams right. 

Maybe he’d still be Ben.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may write a second chapter (which would explain who the figure is) at some point...would you guys like that, or do you think I should leave it as is?
> 
> Once again, please feel free to message me to chat!! ([@i-prefer-the-term-antihero](https://i-prefer-the-term-antihero.tumblr.com),[ @antihero-writings](https://antihero-writings.tumblr.com))


	2. The Reality of a Destined Monster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to write that second chapter after all! I hope you guys like it!! Please don't hesitate to let me know!! Comments really do make my week!!

All he knows is he has to _kill_.  
  
The young man’s breathing is tempered, the cold threatening to bite into him, but he fends it off. Doesn’t falter. The darkness around him is his ally, cloaking him from the light and all things within it which would expose his faceless appearance.  
  
He does not know how long he has been in this snowy woods, searching, hunting. All that is real is this dark intent consuming him, and the blacker faith that set in there.  
  
He is not a patient person. He will not wait for his prey to come to him. He stalks it from shadow to shadow.  
  
Finally, he hears it: breathing. 

The short, frantic gasps of his prey, as if the thing is pleading with the air to rescue him, begging for some coin of relief from this cold, this endless winter chase. 

The sound is so small, so pitiful, shallow and without real resolve or reprieve...just the act of inhaling, exhaling, nothing entering his lungs.   
  
The breath collapses, falls into the snow, crashing like a tree wondering if it made a sound when there was only the night to hear it.

The night did hear it.  
  
Now, now that his prey is within is grasp, now that his prey is heaving defenseless on the ground, _now_ the shadow makes his move, stepping before him as if from behind the curtain of this grand show.   
  
His prey is a little boy, feeble and shaking on the ground. His form is so clear; the only thing in this blurred universe that is completely real. His black hair playing monkey in the middle before his eyes, infected with fear, tears tugging his lips.  
  
Hatred surges like a squall. His mind foggy, his reasons clouded behind a wall called yesterday, but when that hatred shoots through him and he knows it is real, even if nothing else is.  
  
This boy is nothing. Nothing. Nothing to him. Nothing at all. Young, afraid, powerless. He could destroy him now, and he would never become anything. Just a broken puppet of fear twisted and mangled on the playroom floor.   
  
But, try as he might to deny it, he _isn’t_ nothing. To the host of darkness he means too much. This is more of a feeling than a knowing too. His presence makes him so angry, so disgusted, so…

So lost. So afraid. So alone. As if this wretched thing’s emotions are ebbing and flowing into his own mind.

And the fact that he makes him feel like this means he isn’t nothing. He has a place in his heart, power over him—  
  
It is that, that power this boy has over him, that which he must sever. 

Ben Solo.  
  
Just the thought of that name makes his hands curl into gloved fists, his jaw clench behind the mask. He hates the faceless name as much as he hates the face that goes with it, a tag team of disdain and contempt.  
  
He will destroy this boy. That name. He must. If he doesn’t, Ben Solo will surely destroy him.  
  
The darkness stands at his side like soldiers awaiting his command, a finely tuned blade.  
  
He ignites his real blade, the sound of the lightsaber rending the silence like a piece of paper. The red crackles, as if it too is unsure, as if it’s angry like its master is, scared like Ben is, singing a cracked, unfinished aria about lonely heroes falling to the dark, princes chained to thrones, scoundrels saving the day in war-struck empires, all hoping they’ll see light again.  
  
Black. White. Red. The only colors he knows now.

There was a time when he could see other colors. He named them, scribbled them messily on tablets and pages, along with stick-figure drawings of a mommy and daddy who aren't there for him anymore.

He’s forgotten the hues now.   
  
He could ask Ben how and why he found himself in this snowy woods, he could demand that he leave him alone. He could leave him in the snow to freeze him out. But that wouldn’t be enough. He’s come to break his fragile heart while he still has a chance, in attempts to harden his own. It’s all he must do to become what he is meant to be, all he can do to free himself from the torment in Ben’s eyes.

It’s simple enough.  
  
Ben shuts those eyes, tight, doesn’t let go of the breath he’s holding, as if his own lungs are capable of keeping it safe from the fire.  
  
But after everything, the resolve strumming his heart, the shadows humming beside him, the saber singing sweetly...he finds he can’t just…do it. He can’t just raise the lightsaber and strike him down. Staring at his pitiful face, hatred piercing through him, even so, something, something like memory enters him, keeping him from his goal.

No. That’s not it. It can’t be. No, it’s just too…easy. That’s all. He’s going to play with his catch before devouring it. Killing him right away is no fun.  
  
“Ben,” he taunts, trying to make the word contain all his hatred, sound as ugly as it tastes. and Ben is so small, so young…or maybe he is just too old, “Oh poor little Ben,” the words drip with a mocking pity, “who will save you now?”  
  
The shadow watches, watches the boy as he rifles in his mind for something to save him.  
  
“My father will come. H-He’ll come to save me.”  
  
The feeble words thrown into the snow catch the shadow by surprise.  
  
He laughs at how ridiculous such an answer is.  
  
The answer he provided…well, it’s a child’s answer, to be sure. Still. As much as he tries to deny it something pangs in the back of his chest.  
  
The hatred and resolve redoubles itself. There it is again; this boy’s ability to rummage around in the depths of his soul and bring out the parts of himself he thought he’d disposed of long ago. 

He wants to take this boy and make him feel all the pain he causes him before running him through. Some call it revenge. He calls it destiny.  
  
He powers down his saber now, the red, commanding glow dissipating from the air. 

The shadows around ask _why?_ He tells them it won’t be long.  
  
He puts his hand on the boy’s cheek, as if checking he’s real, that the merchandise is of the highest grade, as if checking for a pulse. He doesn’t want to pollute himself with the boy’s fragility, yet he must, he must do this, must hang horror over his head like hypnosis. 

There is something barely noticeable that does contaminate the sting in his words, gets in to the gaps in his mask, when he says;  
  
“Poor little Ben…all alone in the world.”  
  
He can see the boy’s adam’s apple bobbing up and down like a game at at the fair— _this may be a game, but I’ll never let you back up for air_ —  
  
And at last he can no longer take the feeling of touching this thing   
  
“You think Han Solo will come to your rescue?” He tries to make the name as venomous as when he spoke the boy's name, and this time he feels he accomplished that. “You think that arrogant wretch will be your savior?” He laughs. It's silly notion after all, the smuggler coming to save this pitiful thing—

—Well, is it funny a father would save his son? …Or at least try—

“I am sorry to say”—and he isn’t sorry at all—“he will leave you on your own…everyone will. Han Solo can’t save you.” The words are an echo of something he said once.  
  
The boy’s hands are trembling in their fists, his nails digging into his palm, and the shadow feels a shot of anger go through him at the cry “N-No! NO!” the resolve in his voice almost mirroring his own.   
  
—(If that means he barely has resolve at all.)—  
  
“You’re so sure…why?” And this is the first question he’s actually curious to hear the answer to. Because why would this boy, all alone in these dark and snowy woods, powerless before a monster, hold on so tightly to something so breakable as the light?  
  
“Because…Because he’s my father—”  
  
He instantly regrets the question. He’d been hoping for some real, interesting answer, not some circular, childish reasoning. He snuffs out the conversation before he can continue.  
  
“And that’s what fathers do? Just because he is your father doesn’t mean he’ll always be there. There are some darknesses we must face alone. Best to realize this earlier on…it’ll save you the pain of betrayal later.”  
  
Sometimes he wishes someone had warned him. That he knew what was coming to him. That even those he held most dear would never regard him as something human, rather as a monster to be tamed, appeased, dealt with, sacrificed to. Then again, if someone had told him at Ben’s age…he probably wouldn’t have believed them anyway.  
  
Ben is still shivering, but he knows now the cold and the fear have nothing to do with it. That anger is so familiar to him he almost doesn’t recognize how overwhelming it must feel in the boy’s small frame.  
  
He reaches back and tilts Ben’s chin up, trying to make him feel as weak and powerless as possible.  
  
“You cling so tightly to the light. Wouldn’t it be easier to just give in?”  
  
“U-Uncle Luke says—”  
  
He wants to hit him and say _strike two_. To wring his neck for even speaking that name in his presence.  
  
“Skywalker.” The last thread in his venomous chord. “I should have known…Did he ever tell you of your grandfather?”  
  
Because that’s who matters in all this. The only one who really matters.   
  
Ben’s silence betrays him.   
  
“What if even your uncle Luke”—there’s that venom again—“isn’t the perfect hero everyone claims he is? If even he were to turn against you one day…what would you do?”  
  
“No…NO! Uncle Luke would never do that!”  
  
Ben is wrong. So very wrong.   
  
But that isn’t what matters anymore, because the shadow’s indecision may have led him to folly. He thought he was alone with Ben in these woods and all the time in the world, but now he feels another presence. 

“Quiet!” He paralyzes his prey with the Force, keeping him locked where he can still strike him down, igniting his saber again, the tongues of fire trying to lick the terrified expression off the boy's face.  
  
The figure steps before Ben, trying to shield him from the darkness’ offer. Their face is obscured, but their presence is familiar.  
  
“You’re the one who shouldn’t be so chatty.”—And they’re probably right about that—“He’s jut a boy. What do you want with him?”  
  
“What use would _you_ have for him? He is just a boy.”  
  
“Use?” they sound offended, “He’s not a tool, or a toy! He is a _person_!”  
  
He twirls his lightsaber in the air as if that’s enough of a threat. “He has his grandfather’s blood in him. Someday he could become something great. But not like this; not sniveling on the ground.”  
  
—(And that’s what he wants to kill; the part of himself that’s the thing sniveling on the ground)—  
  
“He could be something great. He _will_ be. But not led by you. Go. Leave him alone.”  
  
“I’m afraid I can’t do that.” 

They draw their own lightsaber—such a bright song, one about heroes, and hope, and never giving up—the blades clashing, creating fireworks in the night, their sound reverberating through the silence, and when Kylo Ren feels the lightsaber drill a hole in his chest…Ben Solo falls too.  
  
Kylo Ren awoke in his quarters, drenched in a cold sweat and heaving for breath. He tried to get up and fell off the bed to the ground.  
  
He had forgotten about the dream. 

He’d had many nightmares like this one (long ago, now), and everyone always told him they didn’t mean anything.  
  
But he knew they were wrong.   
  
If he had remembered the dream from back then, he would have tried to forget it, as he did everything to do with Ben Solo. To pretend he never was that little boy crying on the ground, begging his parents to save him from the monsters in his head.  
  
And what was he now?   
  
Thirty years old, crying on the ground. The only difference was this time he didn’t have any parents to run to anymore. He was far far away from them, a lost boy trapped behind the second star.  
  
Rage surged like a living thing, infecting his breath, curling his fingers into fists.  
  
He wanted so desperately to destroy Ben Solo, to eradicate the sway he had over his heart, the ability he had to make him feel lost and scared and lonely, the child’s voice inside telling him _this isn’t right._  
  
As much as he tried to block them out, deny they were ever real, fragments of memories fell apart in his head and cut his thoughts.  
  
He had killed Han Solo. That thing that caused him so much pain, so much torment, so much guilt. That thing tying him to that boy on the ground—the boy’s hope at rescue, still aching inside him—cutting off his ties to the life boat, ensuring him that nothing and no one would take him back to shore. Assuring him that the dark, the wind, and the waves were all he was, all he could turn to.  
  
And now guilt was an ever-present specter rotting away his chest like maggots. Memories like banshees, screaming, undead in his head.  
  
Sitting up, leaning against the bed, he tried to tell himself it was only a dream.   
  
He failed.  
  
Here he was, the shining, war-struck legacy of Princess, General, Leia, Han Solo, of Luke Skywalker, and Ben Kenobi, and Darth Vader…sniveling on the ground. Trying to be everything at once and failing to be one thing at all. Trying so hard to fulfill a destiny…yet coming back with the pieces of dreams. Trapped behind sheens of lies, the ones others told him, and those he told himself. 

If only he could have forgotten, destroyed that boy in the woods.  
  


If only he’d grown up. 

If only he’d stopped believing in the light.  
  
Then maybe he could convince himself he’s not still Ben.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kind of wanted to put a later memory of Han, (like maybe a memory of when he wasn't there for him?) within that last part to mirror the first chapter, but I wasn't quite sure what to do for that...Do you guys have any ideas for that? Do you feel it needs that/that would improve it?
> 
> Also, fyi, it's supposed to say 2/2 above...for some reason Ao3 won't let me change it


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